Audience With the Opera Ghost
by Jekyde
Summary: A while ago when I still had my muse, I joined a role playing group that put together a bunch of musicals of a certain era (with a little leeway). IE: Phantom, Jekyll and Hyde, Les Misérables, Sweeny Todd, etc etc. One of their main characters stopped playing and so I decided to take up the role. This was the background I wrote up for him; Erik, the Phantom of the Opera.


Do cease your incessant screaming, you pathetic little wretch before I change my mind and leave you here instead of help you! Had a little lapse in judgment? Come to try to find out the secret of the infamous Opera Ghost? Yes, yes, you needn't say a word — which I assume you can do little of. Breathe, boy, before you hyperventilate and faint on the spot.

You foolish child, you should not have come down here. There are a number of traps that would have done far worse than broken your ankle! Now come, take my hand. Stop looking upon it as if it will strike out and bite you. It is not a cobra. It is a perfectly good hand, despite it's.. oh dear, are you going to start crying again? Fine. Remain here, wail, weep and moan until someone comes to fetch you. I assure you, dear boy, no one will be coming.

Changed your mind, then? Excellent. Now keep still. This will likely hurt more than it does already. Scream if you must. The only beings in this dreadful place that would hear you are the multitude of rats scurrying about. Ah! A moment of bravery, how quaint. And how thankful my ears are to your muffled keen. I dare say that you will not be able to walk upon that ankle. Come. Stop squirming! Must I leave you here? Yes, cringe if you like, but do not move lest I drop you.

I suppose I should not be cross with you. All young men will indulge in their curiosity. Why, even I had fleeting moments of must-know when I was a boy. Oh do not look at me that way. Do you believe that I clawed myself out of the Devil's visceral womb, half formed and fully grown? Is that the rumor now? How lovely. No, I did not claw from the Devil. I was born like any other child; from the warmth of my mother's womb. No one can remember the day of their birth; what they saw, smelled and felt.

I remember. I remember with a crisp unforgiving clarity that it burns my breast to recall.

It was with a silent revulsion that I was held in regard. My mother was not the first to lift me into her weakened arms, but the midwife. Had she not been a God fearing woman, she may have dashed me to the floor and called it good! That did not come until later, and not by the older woman's wrinkled hands. So unwelcome was I, that my mother did not deem it fit to give me a name. It was the baptizing Father that came shortly after my horrible birth that 'graced' me with a name; Erik.

You look surprised. Ah yes. Such a plain name for a creature, I know. It was not even French! Though I suppose it was somewhat flattering and acceptable that the Father named me after himself. With my mother's encouragement, of course. I came to like the name, which is why I wear it to this day.

Shut away in an attic with only a string of bells as a toy and flimsy mask as my one and only true piece of clothing, I cried very little in fear that the modicum of attention she deemed to give me would disappear altogether. The Father was not around to ensure she would not go against the will of God, and I believe it was only her strength in her religion that kept her from leaving me to starve and die. Such a loving parent, no?

I learned my first notes of music thing. It came naturally! I had but five bells to work with, and each had their own variation of a note. Despite having the weakness of a new born, I reached for those bells and played then gloriously. I do not know just how long my only company were those bells — perhaps no more than six, seven months at the most — until I came across the scratching, snuffling sounds of a curious animal, barely heard over the viciousness of the storm outside.

Why, you speak now. Wonderful! What was it, you ask? A dog. A beautiful Spaniel by the name of Sasha. I tempted it closer with the coo of my voice and the lively thing became curious enough to knock my crib over. It hurt, yes, but the pain was overshadowed by the sheer joy that this glorious dog was playing with me! After so long of neglect, of being held only long enough to be fed, changed and bathed, my first form of kindness came from this four legged creature. Was it any surprise, then, that her name was the first I uttered?

This was only the catalyst. I was allowed out of the attic then, only because I wailed so terribly and so insistently that she was helpless to it. If I could not have her love, I would not be denied Sasha's. Using her as a physical guide for my weak infant legs, I wandered about the house, drinking in the sights. The words attached to items were learned by simple observation. My attention may seemed to have been focus on the dog, but I was listening to her and her friend Marie. It was this extraordinary talent of accelerated learning that had her finally step into my life. Not as a mother, no. As a teacher.

Hm? Why yes, this is my home. Or, rather, this is the door to my home. Did you expect a multitude of candles, stifling fog and a haunting pipe organ that plays itself? Dear boy, that would be a fire hazard, and while the organ does play itself, I would rather be the one to caress its keys. That automaton mechanism has not been used for some time. Besides, regardless of the depths of these caverns, they do not provide proper acoustics without suitable walls present. It would become one horrendous cacophony of discordant sounds.

Lie there and do not move. You will only harm yourself further if you walk. Yes, I know you can hear my voice as if it is next you, though I am a room away. A quaint little ability I picked up over the years. There were very few outside sources to keep me entertained, you see. Mother never let me out of the house. It was for my own good, she would say. To keep me safe. If I knew then what I knew now… Regardless. She and Father Mansart — another tutor I had the.. pleasure of learning from — fed nearly every single one of my curiosities. To keep me from throwing the most appalling temper tantrums, no doubt.

There was one curiosity that I wish she didn't indulge, one act of defiance I wish she beat me soundly for. I was but five when I was first introduced to a monster I would never be rid of. A horrid creature with pallid, thin skin that housed a mapwork of blue veins. Sunken, misaligned eyes and a hole where a nose should be. Sound familiar, does it not? Yes, indeed! I learned on that day that mirrors were a thing to be feared and revered. I learned to use them well in the audience of the Shah. But ah.. I am getting ahead of myself.

Making mirrors was a tricky process, but what was even more tricky was sneaking out of the house to go to the church that the Father often visited. He told me of an organ there, a beautiful instrument that was akin to the voice of God, and I had to see it. I had my piano, yes, as well as my violin, but my greedy little fingers hungered for something more. My little jaunts were eventually discovered, much to my annoyance. People heard the playing late in the evening, and in my childish fancy, I believed that they may think it a ghost. Yes, yes indeed. That night the Opera Ghost first revealed himself to me and remained ever since.

Here, place this upon your ankle. It is cold, but leave it there! It will decrease the swelling while this will ease the pain. Oh come now, boy. If I truly wished to poison you, I would have done so already. Drink up. Hm? Ah yes. Did the Opera Ghost cause havoc after his manifestation? He did not. I was distracted by the lessons of the Master craftsman an architect Professor Guizot. Meeting him was tedious, at best. Believing my genius to be some fraud, he tested me to the extent of _his_ knowledge. Imagine his amazement and befuddlement when I exceeded it.

No matter how distracting these lessons were, I could not ignore the glaring obviousness of my mother's newest focus. I curse his name to this day; Étienne Barye. If it was not for him, I would have earned a better relationship with my mother. I would not have left her during her moment of revelation. I could have had some form of normality in my cursed life!

Oh do be silent, boy. I will not strike you. I warned you of my temper, had I not? Or were you not listening to my tale? Yes, I left home. I had to. The only thing that had loved me unconditionally had been killed by ignorance. The boys if the town had beaten the poor dog to death and stabbed me while saving her. Étienne provided me with care and enough laudanum to dull the pain, but I still heard the conversation. He wanted to put me into an asylum, he wanted her all too himself and she — to my surprise — was torn. Oh then I believe I knew perfectly why she was torn. The Father reminded her, numerous times, that depriving me of life would have her soul cast into hell. If only I knew then what I know now…

Where did I go when I ran away from home? Why, I joined the circus, of course! I did what ever little boy and girl wants to do to get away from their overbearing parents and "unfair life". But oh, dear child, it was nothing like you may have believed. Yes, I see the hope in your eyes. The childish fancy. Let me dash it now, shall I? Gypsies are horrid creatures. Lying, cheating, manipulating, backstabbing heathens that will spit on you as much as look at you. Imagine, if you will, the life I lead amongst them; captured and caged away, forced to perform like a little monkey — albeit a dead looking one. "Devil's Child" I was dubbed. Eventually I got my way. I would not perform without certain freedoms. Unfortunately, my stubbornness gathered the most unwanted of attention and intentions. No, I will not go into great detail. My stomach curdles simply thinking about it. What I will say is the night I ran from them is the night the Ghost savored its first true taste of shed blood.

Ah well. C'est la vie. Life moved on and so shall I.

How is your ankle? The throbbing has eased? Excellent. Do not give me that codfish look. You knew very well that I was — am — a murderer. I daresay I can only use the excuse of people tripping over their feet and hanging themselves only so often. Do be glad that I found one method of calming down those urges. Building. Yes.. building. Such a mundane task, one would think. It wasn't so mundane when the teacher become a type of father figure for me. Giovanni.. I will never forget him. He is likely long dead, reunited with his daughter in this mystical 'Heaven' I have heard tale about.

After my time with him, I was content to travel. Perhaps it was the influence of the Gypsies, or perhaps it was the desire to keep from becoming too attached to anyone. I had allowed myself to become too comfortable with Giovanni, enough where I felt a stifling jealousy over the knowledge of his daughter. In hindsight, I should not have been jealous, but I do believe you can understand that I felt the need to keep him to myself.

My travels took me south; far beyond Italy, quickly through Romania where, admittedly, I did stop long enough to visit Bran Castle. With the myths that surrounded it, do you truly think I could pass up the chance to see if there was some merit to them? Is there? Now, my dear boy, that is something you would have to find out on your own. I spent a year in Turkey under the apprenticeship of a master magician, unbeknownst to him. He never did figure out where his accouterments disappeared to. I still have a few of them. The others were lost in random cities, no doubt. I finally ended up in Persia where I remained for three years.

Excuse me while I gloss over some events during my time there. It is not quite something I wish to remember, nor do I think I would be able to, what with the amount of opium I consumed. I will tell you that the rulership is nothing to be laughed at. They will create you and destroy you all in the same breath, simply on a whim. Death means very little to them, and when you are the instrument of death, your own life lasts for as long as the Shah and his court are entertained. Yes, I was an instrument there. I was the Dark Sorcerer, the Master Musician and, most of all, the Angel of Death. There.. the Opera Ghost was fully born, given life, and fed, continuously fed!, to his glorious contentment. He no longer rattled the cage. No, he was freed, left to splay his claws and howl! I gave them the horrific illusions, the malevolent caress of the Punjab Lasso, I gave her the amusing deaths she cried for.

And then, in the end, I gave her the amusing death he, the Ghost, demanded.

You look pale, child. Going to be sick are you? No! Do not use that! That is a very fragile piece of art. You see the picture embedded into the bottom of the bowl? Yes, yes. Now look at it as I hold it up to the light. Quite a masterpiece, is it not? It took precise carving to obtain this effect. This woman is a geisha. Geisha are— oh marvelous. You are an intelligent one, then. Yes, that is exactly what a geisha is. Hardly the whores that those of the West made them out to be. I had the pleasure of meeting a troupe of them during my time in Japan. It was, perhaps, one of the more pleasant eras in my long life time despite the restlessness I felt there.

You see, I made a promise to the Daroga of Persia, that I would attempt to chain my desire to kill, but in a place where the political assassin is much in demand and the ending of a life all too easily accomplished, with no questions asked, you can understand the difficulty. Building became a calming factor, as well as a young woman I met, a Western girl that was a servant in a Japanese family. I was not accepted at first, but my eccentric ways seemed.. to grow on them. Again I found myself in a position where I was to become the son that someone didn't have. Oh but this one did this time. A vindictive, cruel beast by the name of Kito. He often beat Anna, the servant girl, for the simple pleasure of doing so, and when his father treated me with a kindness that the boy hadn't earned.. He tempted that monster in me, time and time again, until it could no longer be contained. I killed him, yes, but this time I killed not to protect myself, but to protect another. Erik is not so completely selfish, you see.

I felt the need to leave Japan afterwards. I left a stain there upon that quiet, happy home, and though the residence seemed to sigh with Kito's demise, my nomadic nature would not keep me there. As a parting gift for Anna, I asked for her freedom. Perhaps it could be said that she was purchased for I left behind a copious amount of jewels I had acquired in Persia. Had they grandchildren, their children would be comfortable for the rest of their lives with the amount of glittering gems I left nested in their sitting room. Anna took a ship back with me to France where we parted ways on the docks of Bruges, Belgium. Last I heard of her, she was traveling to France with her own gems to pay her way. I can be a generous man, when the urge strikes me.

This is not too tight, is it? Keep this wrapped. The splint will ensure that you do not twist it the wrong way. The pain will be tolerable now with the medication and this poultice. Yes, hold it there. Not too firmly, now. Where was I? Ah.. Yes.. When I returned to the mainland, I continued traveling much as I had through Europe years prior. Constantly moving to avoid the prying eyes and hostility. During these travels I learned that I could influence people through other means than inspiring fear and brute force. My voice. My voice had always been an interesting addition; an instrument of pure clarity, a stark contrast of the monster that carried it and wield it just as easily as a weapon. I tasted this ability when I was a child and I influenced my mother, and I perfected it enough where I would obtain a trance-like obedience with but a word. I managed to earn myself a rather well paid slave in this manner, a man who was as much of a master mason as Giovanni. When he was established, I felt the overwhelming need to travel again. This time to Boscherville, where I was born.

I cannot say what lead me back to the place that held so much misery. Standing before the door reminded me of the nights I looked upon it across the dirt strewn road, dreading and detesting that manor. As an adult, there was a sense of loathing that settled in my breast. I had believed that another took residence in the modest home, but to my horror and surprise, it was a face I would have recognized any place. Marie Perrault. My mother's friend and my very reluctant nanny.

We spoke shortly before the question would be posed. I wanted to know where my mother was. She had died three days prior, and I could do nothing but curse my lack of response to the primitive intuition and need to return. My instincts never served me wrong before, and I denied them for months. I learned much during my time speaking with Marie. My mother remarried and never left home, perhaps with the hopes that her little boy would return. At the time the older woman mentioned this to me, I wished to laugh, but now.. Now I believe her. Perhaps she made the same revelation that I had made; that the other's happiness was more important than our own selfishness. I forgave her that night and turned away with the hope that she, too, forgave me.

My, you have been quite the rapt listener. I should be flattered, but your furtive glances have not gone past my notice. You could try to escape, by all means attempt if you like, though I doubt you would go very far. Not only is your ankle quite broken, but I have no desire to lead you through the various traps you will undoubtedly encounter. I helped create this building, you see. I know every little line and curve of her body intimately. I did not initially create her, no. Another by the name of— yes, you are correct, Charles Garnier, it was his vision, but together.. Together we made her marvelous. His welcome was hesitant, until he came to realize that his teacher, a man that I knew, had been my own teacher. One that gave him plans I had drawn when I was a child.

For nine years we worked together on this hellish building, only for it to nearly come tumbling down in the throes of war. Surprisingly enough, she survived with only a little residual damage, but it postponed the grand opening dearly. It wasn't until years later that the crowds began filing in and I, hidden in a marvelous vantage point, watched them. I did not take place among them. I did not need to be known. I did not want to be known. The Opera House was my home and I, but a shadow across the wall there and a flicker of candle here, was its ghostly inhabitant. Becoming the ghost started as but a game at first, something to frighten cocky and arrogant managers that wished to give Garnier a difficult time. But then I fell quite comfortably into the role as this terrible Phantom and, for a time, it alleviated the boredom I felt.

Was I lonely? Any mortal man would be. All I truly had as company was a little lady I came across during one of my nightly travels. A child? Oh dear no. Why, her over there, lounging on the organ as if this was a palace to be owned by her. Little did I know that a few others would start to trickle into my life. My conscience, that _blasted _Persian, came sauntering into Paris, fully expecting me to be this ghost he had heard tale of, and he had no intention of leaving! Another was an older woman, one that had a charming little chatter box of a daughter, the latter of which conjured up the most interesting tales of the Phantom. Why, I fully believe that she should write gothic novels instead of dancing her toes off on the grand stage. All three had a particular significance in my dreadful, dreary life.. but there was one more that was — is — a blinding splash of color.

Who is she, you ask? Who is the woman that brings a hint of a smile to my otherwise expressionless countenance? I believe, my dear boy, that is not something you need to know. Why, should you manage to return to the surface, I cannot have to speaking of how the Phantom is seemingly smitten! She pleaded to God, to her father, to hear her Angel and now that she has heard him… What? Why are you laughing? Mademoiselle Daae speaks often about her Angel, does she? Do you think it is so humorous that someone like I could find pleasure in her company? Then why are you laughing? Just…the _opposite_? I see.

Well now. I should like to say that your ankle looks perfectly healed. Oh tut, do not give me that look. The swelling has gone down, and should you walk I am positive that you will be able to do so without a limp. While you gather the bravery to walk — after all, you must be quite brave to laugh at the Phantom — I will drown myself in my music. Though do know one thing, boy.. If you are here when I return, you will learn exactly how Monsieur Bouquet met his demise.

Am I understood? Excellent. Oh, and boy? You may wish to run. The piece I will be playing is depressingly _short_.


End file.
